


Apple Ripe

by Demus



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:11:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to a prompt on the kink meme; 'For whatever reason, Tintin accidentally imbibes (too much, seeing as he'd be a complete lightweight) and ends up drunkenly trying to put the moves on the captain. Poor Haddock tries to do the honorable thing.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apple Ripe

"Ahoy, landlubber. You're drunk."

This obviously hasn't occurred to the boy. Tintin freezes and Haddock, still a little tipsy himself from the evening's festivities, manages to sit up with only a minimal amount of fumbling and reaches for his bedside lamp.

The light reveals the truth. Tintin is already halfway into the bed with one knee resting on the mattress, his other foot still on the bedroom floor and his upper body a lump underneath Haddock's blankets. Haddock sighs. "You're in the wrong bedroom, lad," he says as kindly as possible, trying to cudgel his sleep-muddied thoughts into order. He can't remember pouring more than a couple of glasses for the boy, but then he's not a habitual drinker by any stretch of the imagination.

Tintin does move, breaking the captain's concentration, though it is not quite in the direction envisaged. He crawls determinedly onto the bed, moving with the exaggerated care that intoxication gives a man, then he emerges from the blankets alongside Haddock, his weight dipping the mattress. “Captain,” he breathes, with the air of one making a momentous discovery.

Haddock sighs a second time. “Yes, it's me. This being my bed, in my bedroom.”

This seems to strike Tintin as hilarious; he laughs freely, that bright pealing laugh that never fails to make Haddock smile, and collapses onto his side, unable to hold himself upright. His cheeks are flushed, even with Haddock's shadow falling across his face, and laughter leaves him breathless, eyes a-glitter.

The captain is abruptly very aware of his own body, the slow drag of breath and rush of blood, long-suppressed heat tingling right at his centre, the cool cotton of his pyjamas suddenly rough against skin that feels hot, tight. “Tintin-”

“Captain,” Tintin replies, delight gentling his voice. He's heavy for one so slight, the lithe heaviness of roped muscles, and he's beautiful and dazed in Haddock's bed, a lost boy with light in his eyes, and the slow uncurling of lust in Haddock's belly is an old, old torment.

“Lad, I think you should go to bed,” the captain says, as steadily as he is able. Tintin's brows furrow just the tiniest bit and, God help him, but Haddock wants to kiss that crease away with every fibre of his being.

“But I am in bed,” the lad protests (oh, he might well be old enough, and apple-ripe for the plucking, but Haddock _can't_ ) and his smile disappears into a pout that leaves Haddock's lips tingling. “Captain,” Tintin says for the third time, this time reaching out a drink-clumsy hand to snare the older man's arm. It seems like he wants to say something more but he is caught on the word, repeating it once more, tugging insistently when Haddock's muscles tighten against his entreaty.

“Let go of me,” Haddock says, the words scratching rough and hoarse in a throat that longs to close against them then, when Tintin's grip only tightens, “My dear Tintin, please, you must- Thundering typhoons, you're drunk! You need to sleep!”

Tintin cocks his head to one side, the rounded delicacy of his features belying the steel in his grip. “I want to sleep,” he informs the captain, in that most patient tone he uses to address the two Thom(p)sons. “If you will- will only stop being so, so, so silly and lie down with me-”

It is the entreaty in his voice that breaks whatever hold Haddock had on his inhibitions. He has never commanded them, not really, any alcoholic could tell the same tale of a struggle long-lost with one's own desires, so he allows Tintin to pull him down and offers only token resistance when the lad retains possession of his arm, tucking it into his chest and curling up around it, his breath cool against Haddock's neck.

“Good night, captain,” Tintin murmurs, halfway to sleep already.

Haddock stares at him. Now that he's lying down, the light from the lamp is warmly yellow over Tintin's face, the drowsy droop of his eyelids, that happy twist of his lips. He's golden with the sun from their last adventure, all softness, happy as he rarely seems to be, and Haddock _wants._

It is a long, long night.


End file.
